My life these days is so ordinary and normal that I find it hard to believe that once I roamed the streets at night, spent huge amounts on taxis and would often embark on long trips after hardly any consideration or planning. When I go on something like an overseas trip these days, I plan months in advance and think very carefully about it.

The trouble was that, when I was sick, I thought that certain people were out to get me and that sometimes my life was in danger. I looked for "signs" that would tell me what to do next. I thought that there was some deeper meaning to everything that people said, that there was some kind of code that I had to crack. I would spend ages mulling over something that somebody had said, or wondering what a certain facial expression really meant. I though just about everything had a special meaning, including street signs and car number plates.

When I did try to plan something I was usually in a bit of a fluster because I thought that my enemies were about to catch up with me. I was also too scared to think too much about things, because I thought my enemies could read my mind and would know what I planned to do next.

I would make a decision on the spur of the moment, hoping that my enemies would not pick up on it. I would confuse them and they would lose my trail.

To other people I seemed very grim and humorless. I thought that if anybody laughed they were secretly laughing at me. People's faces looked different and I often thought they were muttering things about me under their breath. I was mistrustful of other people and questioned their motives.

My trip to Australia was a disaster almost from the start. The taxi driver arrived while I was still packing in my motel room. I had heaps of stuff, and tried to put as much as possible into my suitcases. Of course, when I got to the airport my luggage was well over the weight limit so I had to send most of it on a plane that left later. The rest of my stuff I took to a freight company who agreed to pack it all and send it over to Sydney for me. I caught my flight just in the nick of time and found the actual journey very uncomfortable since I had trouble sitting still in one place for so long.

When I got to Sydney, I moved around from one backpacker hostel to another until I ran out of money. The first time I ran out of money, I stayed with an old university acquaintance. As soon as I got a little bit of money from doing some telemarketing work, I was off again. Then I managed to find one day's work as a caterer.

When I ran out of money again, I had to call my parents in New Zealand for help. Luckily, my father knew a family in Sydney, and they came to my rescue. They looked after me well, but the trouble was that I couldn't believe anybody had good intentions. If they told me to do something, I thought I should do the exact opposite. So of course when they pleaded with me not to go to Melbourne, I thought that it would be best if I did go. If they had adopted a more casual attitude, I probably would have behaved a bit more rationally! In no time at all, I had to come back to Sydney because I couldn't cope in Melbourne. Somehow, Dad's friends managed to persuade me to go back to New Zealand. As soon as I made the decision to go back, I could feel the tension ease. Since the "vibes" were good, I knew that this was the right decision.

When I got back to New Zealand I spent some time in Wellington living in various backpacker hostels and boarding houses. I eventually ended up in Dunedin. All this time, I was finding it increasingly difficult to look after myself. I wasn't eating properly, I didn't have many clothes, and I was feeling very tired. I remember sitting by myself in my room at the YMCA listening to the phone ring. Each time it rang, I thought it was a signal that my enemies had successfully read my mind.

Dad sent me some information about supported accommodation and schizophrenia. At first I was shocked by what I read about schizophrenia and thought "This is me!" Then I thought it was all a clever trick and that my enemies and my father were in some kind of conspiracy to make me think that I was mentally ill.

After a few months*, I ended up in Dunedin Hospital. I didn't like being there at first, but the staff took good care of me and I started to get better. I have so many people to thank for helping me to get better. My poor parents never stopped trying to get treatment for me.